Bad News Travels

Chapter 50

Lancaster waited three days before returning to Saint Augustine. He made the trip alone, Beth having returned to her job in DC. He hadn’t shared his suspicions with her, fearful that he might set off all sorts of false alarms.

He took a prop job into the Jacksonville Airport, rented a car, and drove to Saint Augustine, which took forty-five minutes. He spent the rest of the day driving around the city. The town was swarming with news crews filming stories, and he did his best to avoid them. Bad things happened every day, but when a cop was involved, the media would dig as hard as they could, hoping the story would sprout legs and become a cottage industry, producing true crime books and podcasts. Journalism was a noble profession, but at the end of the day, it was still about the money.

Late in the afternoon, he drove to the sheriff’s office and parked in a visitor’s space. He wasn’t going to win any popularity contests here, but it was a risk that he had to take. He needed to get to the truth, and the Saint Augustine police were the best people to help him accomplish that.

The lobby was quiet, and he smiled at the uniformed receptionist behind the bulletproof glass. She raised a finger for him to wait. A surveillance camera was watching him, and he gazed into its lens, still smiling.

She ended her call. “Can I help you?”

“My name is Jon Lancaster. I’d like to speak with Sheriff Soares,” he said.

“Is he expecting you?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“No appointment?”

He shook his head.

“Sheriff Soares is a very busy man. Please contact his secretary, and schedule one. Have a blessed day.”

She steepled her hands, as if praying for him. He passed a Team Adam business card through the slot, which had the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children’s logo prominently displayed. A moment passed as she studied it.

“I know who you are,” she said quietly.

Bad news traveled fast. He lowered his voice. “Sheriff Soares needs to hear what I have to say. Would you be so kind as to tell him I’m here?”

“I’ll do that. Have a seat.”

The waiting area had a small couch and three rows of stiff plastic chairs that were screwed to the floor. The clientele had to be pretty rough to nail down the chairs, and he parked himself in one. He watched the receptionist make the call, while silently counting to himself.

After thirty seconds had passed, a door sprang open, and a big hunk wearing a uniform emerged, walking with a limp. It was one of the deputies that he’d roughed up, No Neck, and he rose from his chair. His head barely reached the deputy’s chin.

“You’ve got a lot of flipping nerve, coming here,” the deputy snorted.

“I need to speak with your boss.”

“When hell freezes over.”

“You’d be surprised. How’s the leg?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I’m not the asshole you think I am.”

The deputy chewed on that one. “It’s healing.”

“How are your friends holding up?”

“Not so good. Kenny’s nose is busted in two places, and Bobby Joe’s got three busted ribs. They both got suspended.”

“How did you get so lucky?”

“Sheriff Soares is my uncle.”

“It’s nice to have friends in high places.”

“My uncle’s busy. Come back tomorrow.”

“Will he be here? Or out fishing?”

The deputy hid a grin. “Come back tomorrow, and find out.”

“Tell your uncle that I need to speak with him about Sykes.”

“My uncle doesn’t want to talk with you. Can I make myself any clearer?”

“I found something.”

The deputy’s face turned to stone. “Come again?”

“I think I know what Sykes was up to.”

“Really. Why don’t you tell your buddies at the FBI? The pretty one’s your girlfriend, isn’t she? Why come here?”

It was an excellent question that could only be answered with the truth. “I used to be a cop, and part of me will always be a cop,” he said. “I want your uncle to hear this first, before the FBI or anyone else. It might help him.”

“Help him how?”

“Sykes was dirty. Dirty cops have a way of taking down innocent cops when they fall. Sometimes, they even take down the people in charge, if you know what I mean.”

The deputy stared at the wall. “You must have heard the news.”

“What news?”

“The governor has asked the Florida Department of Law Enforcement to conduct an investigation. A bunch of pencil dicks are going to turn this place upside down, and figure out how Sykes was able to get away with things for so long. They’ll be looking for a scapegoat. My uncle is a goner.”

“Maybe not.”

“Don’t bullshit me. You were a cop, you know how the FDLE works.”

“I do. The FDLE is at the beck and call of the governor, who can call them off whenever he damn pleases.”

The deputy mulled it over. Then he looked at Lancaster. “What are you saying? That the information you have is strong enough to make the governor call them off?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re giving us first dibs on this information.”

“Correct. But, if your uncle won’t talk to me, I’ll have to go to the FBI. Now, what do you say? Will you ask your uncle to give me ten minutes of his time?”

“No, I won’t.”

He had run out of road, and moved toward the door to leave. He felt the deputy’s hand on his arm, gentle but firm.

“No need to ask my uncle anything,” the deputy said. “I’m going to tell him to talk to you. If I put it that way, he won’t have a choice, now will he?”

Chapter 51

The FBI put in long hours. Special agents worked a fifty hour minimum week, and often seventy to ninety hours a week when on assignment. An agent was considered on duty twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and often worked holidays.

None of that had ever bothered Daniels, who sat in her makeshift office in the basement of the bureau’s DC headquarters, reading through reports of active investigations that her department was conducting. Despite their best efforts, human trafficking was on the rise, the traffickers as clever at moving human beings across the border as the drug cartels were at moving contraband.

She let out a violent sneeze. The dust was wreaking havoc on her sinuses. Her office on the fifth floor was getting a much-needed face-lift, but in the meantime, she would have to suffer in this windowless hole.

Her cell phone vibrated on the metal desk. The caller had a 904 area code, which was Jacksonville and Saint Augustine. She got robocalls from all over the country, and had been fooled before into answering them. She decided to take a chance and answered it.

“Can I help you?”

“Special Agent Daniels? This is Director Rojas in Jacksonville. Do you have a minute to talk?”

“Of course. Nice to know I’m not the only one working late tonight.”

“I work late most nights, and I’m sure you do as well. Did you have the chance to read the report I emailed you this morning? I’d like your opinion before I submit it.”

Rojas was referring to the report on Sykes that her office had prepared and was about to submit to their bosses. It was not uncommon for the FBI to weigh in when an officer of the law crossed the line. While these reports offered little in the way of new information, they often highlighted things about the suspect’s behavior that may have led them to break the law. For the folks in the bureau’s behavioral science division, these insights were invaluable.

“I haven’t read it. I was going to do so tonight.”

“Of course. I’m sure you’re buried in work.”

Daniels had been raised to believe that it was better not to say anything than to tell an outright lie, which she’d just done. “Let me rephrase that. I started to read your report, but had to stop. The section about my father was painful, which I’m sure you can imagine.”

“I’m sorry if it upset you,” Rojas said. “Since you interviewed Sykes, I thought it would be best if you had a look.”

“No need to apologize. I’ll read the report when I get home, which should be in a few hours. I’ll let you know what I think.”

“Thank you. The second thing I need to talk to you about is Jon Lancaster. Were you aware that he’s in Saint Augustine, talking to the police?”

Daniels sat up straight in her chair. Jon had called her last night, and they’d spoken for nearly an hour. Not once had he mentioned a trip to Saint Augustine.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Positive. He flew in this morning, and was spotted driving around Saint Augustine in a rented car. I looked at the surveillance videos, and confirmed that it was him.”

Because Jacksonville was a port city, the FBI’s antiterrorism unit video monitored every ship that came in, as well as every passenger who arrived at the airports. It was impossible for anyone to slip in, and not be spotted.

“How did you find out he was talking to the police?” she asked.

“His behavior seemed odd, so I had an agent tail him. Lancaster pulled into the sheriff’s office at four o’clock.”

Daniels checked the time. It was past six.

“Is Jon still there?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Is your agent watching him?”

“My agent’s sitting in his car across the street, watching with a video dash cam. The images are being sent to my laptop, which I’m looking at right now.”

It didn’t make any sense. Why had Jon traveled to Saint Augustine without telling her? And why was he talking to the sheriff? She heard her name, and looked up to see another agent who’d been sent to the basement standing in her doorway.

“Let me call you back,” she said, and disconnected. “What’s up?”

“We’re going running in the morning,” the special agent said. “Care to join us?”

She hadn’t run in weeks, and her body needed the workout, only something told her that she might be getting on a plane in the morning, and heading back to Florida.

“I’m swamped. Thanks for thinking of me, ” she said.

“Maybe next time,” the agent said.

She watched him walk away. Rising, she went to the door and shut it, then returned to her chair. Rojas picked up on the first ring.

“Things have changed since we last spoke,” Rojas said. “Lancaster just walked out of the sheriff’s office accompanied by six deputies. Sheriff Soares is with the group.”

She stiffened. “Is Jon under arrest?”

“I don’t think so. They’re standing in the parking lot, having a discussion. Everyone appears to be getting along.”

“What do you think is going on?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Lancaster just shook the sheriff’s hand.”

“They shook hands?”

“Correct. It appears the chat is over. Lancaster got in his rental, and is driving away. The deputies are in their cruisers, following him. Sheriff Soares is getting into an unmarked vehicle and joining the procession.”

“Do they have their flashers on?”

“No, they do not.”

Daniels was stumped. This made no sense at all. Without thinking, she said, “Would you ask your agent to follow them, and see where this little parade ends?”

Rojas coughed into the phone. “I work with Soares on a regular basis. If he finds out that I had an agent tail him, there will be hell to pay.”

“Sorry.”

“May I make a suggestion?”

“Go ahead.”

“Why don’t you call your boyfriend, and ask him what the hell’s going on? And after he tells you, please call me back, and fill me in. Because I’m dying to know.”

Rojas sounded angry, which she had every right to be. Jon hadn’t gone to Saint Augustine to take in the sights. He’d found something important, and instead of taking it to the FBI, he’d gone to the sheriff instead. It was a slap in the face, both to Rojas and to her, and Daniels could feel her cheeks burn.

“I’ll do that,” she said.

Chapter 52

Florida had one of the largest veteran populations in the country. Over a million of its citizens had served in a war, and now bore the scars, both visible and psychological, that armed conflict left upon the courageous few who fought.

The VA Hospital in Saint Augustine looked to be brand new, the trees that lined the parking lot propped up by sticks until their roots grew strong enough to hold up their weight. As Lancaster exited his rental, he spotted a pair of deer grazing in the adjacent preserve. It was a pastoral setting, and he was certain that the veterans who lived there appreciated the tranquility, but a part of him wished the building was out in the public, by the side of a highway, with walls made of glass, so that ordinary citizens who passed it would be reminded that for many of the brave men and women who fought them, wars never ended.

Sheriff Soares and his deputies pulled in moments later. Lancaster had been thinking how he wanted to handle this, and he pulled the sheriff aside.

“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to talk with him first,” he said.

Soares twirled the toothpick in his mouth. He was the epitome of a cracker, the back of his neck burned to a crisp by the unrelenting sun.

“What good is that going to do you?” Soares asked.

“We don’t know the whole truth. If I reason with him, maybe he’ll confess.”

“In my experience, guilty men don’t confess.”

“He may have been coerced into this. Let’s give him a chance to do the right thing. We have nothing to lose.”

“Except our precious time. What the hell. Okay, give it a shot.”

Soares told his deputies to wait by their cruisers. Then the sheriff and Lancaster entered the hospital and approached the main reception area. Soares was a man of manners, and he removed his black campaign hat before addressing the receptionist.

“Good afternoon. We’re here to see Dr. Peter Matoff. Is he in?”

“Why hello, Sheriff Soares. How have you been?” the receptionist asked.

“Fair to middling,” the sheriff replied.

“I can’t believe the things I read in the newspaper about Detective Sykes. Who would have known he was such a bad person?” the receptionist said.

Soares coughed into his hand. The receptionist caught his drift, and opened a three-ring binder on her desk. She ran her finger down the page. “Dr. Matoff alternates his days between his duties here, and his private practice. According to my log, he’s here today. Would you like me to call him, and let him know he has visitors?”

“Please don’t,” Soares said. “Where’s his office?”

A cloud passed over the receptionist’s face. Her eyes drifted to the wall of glass by the entrance, and to the deputies standing at stiff attention in the parking lot. It was then that she knew that something was terribly wrong.

The door to Matoff’s office was shut. Soares rapped loudly, then hitched his thumbs in his belt to wait. To Lancaster he said, “I still think you’re wasting our time.”

“Let’s hope you’re wrong,” Lancaster said.

“But my gut tells me you’ll try and reason with him, while all I’m going to do is threaten the son of a bitch. So have at it.”

“Thank you.”

“How long were you a cop?”

“Fifteen years.”

“Do you miss it?”

The door swung in before he could reply. Matoff stood in the doorway, wearing a rumpled navy suit and a necktie with its knot undone. He was a thin man with a mop of unruly white hair and droopy eyes. Seeing the sheriff, he feigned surprise.

“Why hello, Sheriff Soares. What can I do for you today?” Matoff asked.

“We need to have a chat,” Soares said.

“I was just leaving. Can this wait until tomorrow? I’ve had a long day.”

“We need to talk now.”

Matoff swallowed a lump in his throat. “Should I assume this isn’t a social call?”

“You assume right.”

“May I ask who your friend is?”

“This is Jon Lancaster, and he’s assisting me with an investigation,” Soares said. “He’s got a couple of questions he’d like to ask you. It won’t take long.”

Matoff hesitated. He acted like he wanted to call a lawyer, only that would have been an admission of guilt, so instead he’d try to talk his way out of it. It was a classic mistake made by people who didn’t fully understand how the law worked.

“Well, all right. Come in, and make yourself comfortable,” Matoff said.

The blinds on the office windows were drawn, the air stuffy. Matoff sat at his cluttered desk, while Soares and Lancaster remained standing.

“Fire away,” Matoff said, forcing a smile.

Lancaster opened the blinds, flooding the room with light. The office faced a water fountain behind the building, where over a hundred patients had congregated. Many were in wheelchairs, while others used walkers to get around. The majority were old and frail, and appeared to be near their final hour.

Lancaster sat on the edge of the desk, his posture friendly.

“You’re the pathologist here at the VA, correct?” he asked.

“That’s right. I’ve held the position for twenty years,” Matoff said.

“And you also maintain a private practice in town.”

“Correct.”

“And, you also work for the sheriff’s department.”

“On occasion, I perform autopsies, as I’m sure Sheriff Soares has told you. I also assist in investigations when medical advice is necessary.”

“Are you the only pathologist who works with the police?”

“No, I’m not,” Matoff said. “I share that duty with another pathologist, Dr. Mark Torgove, as I’m sure Sheriff Soares also told you.”

“I believe that’s common practice, isn’t it? Most police departments work with two pathologists in case a problem arises.”

Matoff’s face turned to stone. He pretended not to understand.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“Let me explain. When I was a detective, we had two pathologists on call. If a person died and an autopsy was needed, the pathologist would first find out who the deceased was. If the pathologist happened to know the person, he’d excuse himself, and the other pathologist would take over. You don’t want to be slicing open a person you know, even if they are dead. Does that sound about right?”

The blood had drained from Matoff’s face, his skin ghostly pale. When an answer was not forthcoming, Lancaster glanced at Soares.

“Is that how it works in Saint Augustine?”

“That’s standard operating procedure in the whole county,” the sheriff said. “We don’t expect pathologists to perform autopsies on friends. It’s too damn painful.”

Lancaster resumed looking at Matoff. “So that’s the deal. You don’t slice open people you know. But for some reason you did. Not once, but twice.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Matoff said.

“Then let me refresh your memory. You performed an autopsy on Martin Daniels after he committed suicide, even though you and Martin were close friends, and belonged to a group that went fishing together. Correct?”

“But I didn’t know it was Martin!” Matoff protested. “When his body was brought into the hospital, his face had been eaten away by a coyote, and he was unrecognizable. It was only after I compared dental records that I knew it was him.”

“That wasn’t what Detective Sykes told me,” Lancaster said.

Matoff sank into his chair as the words took hold.

“I was present when Sykes was interviewed by the FBI. Sykes said that a car was discovered in the park where Martin’s body was found, and that Sykes ran a check on the plate, and he identified the vehicle as Martin’s. This happened well before the body was brought to the hospital. You’re telling us you didn’t know this?”

Matoff shut his eyes, then reopened them.

“No,” he said.

“You also did the autopsy on Sykes after the detective burned to death in his house,” Lancaster said. “Why didn’t you pass that off to the other pathologist?”

“Because I didn’t know Sykes,” Matoff said.

“Oh yes you did,” Lancaster said. “You were being blackmailed by the Sokolov brothers, who put a mummified hand on your doorstep. The Sokolovs were blackmailing several other prominent men, including Sykes. You were talking with each other, and trying to stop the Sokolovs from ruining your reputations. Isn’t that right?”

“No — I didn’t know Sykes,” Matoff said lamely.

“You’re lying. If the police look through your emails and cell phone records, they’ll find communications between you and Sykes. You knew him, just like you knew Martin Daniels. So why did you perform their autopsies?”

Matoff buried his face in his hands. He’d painted himself into a corner, and there was nowhere left to hide. Lancaster got a bottled water from the minifridge and told him to drink it. It seemed to calm him down, and Soares took over.

“We’ve got you dead to rights, Doc,” the sheriff said. “Jon here thinks you’re an innocent victim; I’m not so sure. Why don’t you tell us your side of things, and let us help you? It will work out better in the long run.”

Matoff lowered his hands. He was weeping.

“All right,” he whispered.

Once Matoff started talking, it was impossible to get him to stop, the words flowing out in a river of guilt, his fear of being caught no match for his conscience.

When he was finished, he gazed sheepishly at Soares and Lancaster.

“I’m sorry for what I’ve done.” Matoff extended his wrists, as if expecting to be handcuffed. Soares shook his head, then motioned for him to rise.

“You’re not going to arrest me?” Matoff asked.

“I agree with my colleague. You were a victim,” Soares said. “You’re going to have to face your family and friends, not to mention the state medical board. That should be punishment enough. I want you to come over to my office, so we can get a confession on video. We can pick up dinner on the way. That work for you?”

Matoff said of course. Soares put his hat on, and left the office. As Matoff started to follow, Lancaster stopped him. Listening to the doctor confess, he’d decided that Matoff had probably never done a bad thing in his life before this, and had simply gotten caught up in a situation that was out of his control. That was the thing about evil that few people understood. Its allure was hypnotic, and its power was all-consuming.

“I know this was hard,” Lancaster said. “Thank you.”

“If I’d only spoken up sooner,” Matoff said regrettably.

“You know what they say. Better late than never.”

“I suppose.”

“One more question. Where in the Keys?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

They went outside. The sun had gone down and the parking lot was pitch dark, the only light coming from the cruisers’ headlights. Matoff got in Soares’s vehicle and they departed, followed by the deputies in their cruisers. Lancaster was pulling out when he got a call from Beth. He wasn’t ready to talk with her, and let it go to voice mail.

She called right back. If he didn’t answer, she’d keep calling and calling. She could be relentless that way.

“Hey,” he answered.

“Where have you been? I’ve texted you a dozen times,” she said angrily.

“Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

“Were you planning on telling me you were in Saint Augustine, or that you’d met with the sheriff this afternoon? What the hell is going on, Jon?”

“Who told you I was in Saint Augustine?”

“A little bird. Now tell me what’s going on. And don’t you dare bullshit me.”

Relationships, if they were meant to last, were based upon trust. Without that bond, they disintegrated. He wanted to tell Beth the truth for no other reason than he wanted their relationship to last. He loved her, and believed that she loved him. But he still hadn’t put all the pieces of the puzzle together. There was one more person he needed to speak with. Until he had that conversation, he was just guessing.

“I’m chasing down a lead,” he said.

“What lead? God damn it, what did you find?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“It’s about my father, isn’t it?”

He gripped the wheel and struggled with a reply.

“Let me call you tomorrow,” he said.

“Answer me! You learned something about my father.”

“Please, Beth.”

“If you don’t tell me what it is, I’ll never speak to you again.”

Yes you will, he thought.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.

Beth started cursing like a sailor, and he wondered how much harm he’d done to the relationship. Maybe it was over, or maybe she’d love him that much more when it was all said and done. He disconnected and hit the gas.

Chapter 53

Three days later

Every five or six years, the Florida Keys went through a transformation. This change had nothing to do with the economy, or an influx of new arrivals eager to put their stamp on the Conch Republic. Rather, it was a result of a major hurricane ravaging the Keys like a runaway train, and tearing down every weary structure in its path.

The latest home-wrecker was Irma, a Category 4 monster that ripped apart four thousand homes, many beyond repair. Manufactured homes and RVs took the worst hit, with residents forced to rent tiny spaces in order to survive. Several thousand people had lost their homes and were now living this way. If you wanted to track one of them down, you needed to know who to ask, and where to look.

Bobby’s Monkey Bar in Key West was the epitome of a dive. The exterior looked like an adult video store, with walls painted a horrendous shade of pink. Inside, smiling stuffed monkeys hung from the ceiling while a drunk lady in a bathing suit sang karaoke on the makeshift stage.

Lancaster had driven down that morning, and needed a drink. Kirk the bartender was just the man he needed to speak to. Kirk’s ratty T-shirt said, ASK MY ADVICE AND YOU’LL END UP DRUNK.

“Hey, Jon, good to see you. What’s your pleasure?” Kirk asked.

“A cold, refreshing beer,” he said.

“If my memory serves me correctly, you have a fondness for IPAs.”

“I’m impressed. You pick the brew.”

Kirk filled a chilled glass and slid it toward him. The bar was busy, as were all the bars in Key West, the town a drunk tank sitting atop a giant sponge. Lancaster took a long swallow and exhaled pleasurably.

“The older I get, the better that tastes,” he said. “Did you get my message?”

Kirk had been living in Key West for decades, and was wired into the town gossip. He was the source for information, provided he knew you, and trusted you.

“Now that you mention it, I did,” he said. “When did you get into skip tracing?”

“I’m not skip tracing. This is a one-time thing.”

“You’re not working for a bail bondsman?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. I hate those assholes.”

Kirk went to serve a pair of leather-clad bikers who’d come in. The drunk lady was mutilating Springsteen’s “Born to Run,” which was not an appropriate song for the area. Key West was on the country’s southernmost tip, and if you left it, there was no place left to run to. Kirk came back and refilled his glass.

“Thanks. So, what have you got for me?”

“Calm down. You just got here,” Kirk said. “Why don’t you take a load off your feet, and soak up the atmosphere? It’ll do you good.”

Normally, he would have agreed. No one in the Keys was in a hurry, and any job was expected to be put off until tomorrow. But this was different; he was about to fit the last piece into the puzzle, and the urgency was killing him.

“I’m not here on vacation,” he said. “I want to get this done before dark.”

“Have it your way. Should I cash you out?”

“Please. How much do I owe you?”

“Eight bucks.”

He fished two hundreds out of his wallet and placed them on the bar.

“Keep the change,” he said.

Kirk found a pen and scribbled an address on the back of a coaster, which he gave to him. “This won’t be easy to find. A lot of buildings got blown away by the storm, and the new ones aren’t on Google Maps. You’re going to need to poke around.”

“That’s my specialty. Poking around.”

“Good luck. Don’t be a stranger.”

Key West was second to none when it came to community, and sparkling blue water. He found the address by asking a man walking his dog, and parked a block away. He spent a few minutes getting a feel for the area before knocking on the front door. A woman wearing a fluffy pink bathrobe answered, a tall boy in hand.

“Sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Danny O’Brien. Is he here?”

“That all depends on who’s asking,” she said.

“My name’s Jon Lancaster. Danny and I are old buddies. He told me to look him up if I ever made it to Key West.”

“Danny’s giving a paddleboard lesson right now. What’s in the bag?”

He showed her the six-pack he’d bought from the local minimart. He offered her one, and she killed the tall boy and popped the fresh can.

“Much obliged. Danny lives in the back,” she said. “You can wait until he comes home. Don’t make any noise. I’m about to take a nap.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

The clapboard garage had been recently converted into an apartment, the paint still fresh. The door was ajar, and he said, “Anyone home?” before entering. The interior was around four hundred square feet, with a George Foreman grill for cooking, a daybed, and a black cat sleeping on the AC unit. He popped a beer and stuffed the rest into the fridge. A stack of flyers sat on a table. He grabbed one and headed outside.

He sat on a rusted chair beneath the shade of a banyan tree and read the flyer while sipping his beer. Lazy Dog Paddleboard Tours. Two-hour eco tours, paddle yoga, and paddle fit classes. Paddleboarding is easier than it looks — come take a class! At the bottom of the page was an email contact, but no phone number.

He heard footsteps and rose from his chair. A man with a neatly trimmed white beard and tanned legs came around the side of the house. He wore clamdigger swim trunks and a long-sleeve shirt to protect him from the sun, and held a glistening paddleboard and an oar by his side. Seeing his visitor, he froze.

“May I help you?” the man asked.

Lancaster held up the flyer. “Your landlady said I could wait until you came back. I’m interested in learning how to paddleboard, and heard you were the local expert.”

The man rested the paddleboard and oar on the side of the garage, and offered his hand. “I’m Danny O’Brien. Nice to meet you.”

“Same here.”

“Have you ever paddleboarded before?”

“This would be my first time.”

“It’s easier than riding a bike, and lots of fun. You’ll get the hang of it in no time. I charge fifty dollars an hour, and provide all the equipment. Cash only.”

“Sounds like a deal. Can we start this afternoon?”

“Of course. Sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Jon. Jon Lancaster.”

O’Brien blinked, and then he blinked again. The blood drained from his face, and he looked like he might pass out. Lancaster helped him into the chair.

“You’re Beth’s boyfriend,” he whispered.

“That’s right.”

“How... did you find me?”

“It wasn’t very hard. Let me get you a cold beer. I brought some with me.”

He went into the apartment and rummaged through the cabinets. His host impressed him as the type of guy who drank his beer out of a glass. He went outside holding a mug with a foaming head, and gave it to him.

“Here you go.”

Lancaster found another rusted chair and positioned it across from his host, and watched him drink. The beverage was consumed in a series of long, desperate gulps.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Dr. Daniels. Beth’s told me a lot about you.”

“Call me Martin. Does Beth know that I’m alive?”

“No. I wanted to find you first, before I told her.”

Martin stared into the depths of his glass. The ruse was over, and he seemed uncertain how to proceed, so he asked the obvious. “Who told you I was here?”

“Dr. Matoff said you were hiding out in the Keys. He confessed to filing false autopsy reports, and claiming that the bodies of two veterans living at the VA who’d committed suicide were actually you and Sykes.”

“The Keys are a big place. How did you know where to look?”

“Because I’ve looked before. When a fugitive hides in the Keys, he avoids the smaller islands, and goes to Key West, which has a larger population. I have a friend here who was able to track you down.”

“So my behavior was predictable.” Martin’s eyes were moist, and when he spoke again, his lips were trembling. “What tripped us up? We thought it was a perfect plan.”

“I was suspicious from the start,” he said. “The autopsy report said that you shot yourself with an antique World War II revolver, yet there were no firearms in your home. Where did the gun come from? And why did you choose one from World War II? When Dr. Matoff explained that the body was actually a World War II veteran who’d used his favorite gun to kill himself, it all made sense.”

Martin shook his head sadly. “I actually thought the same thing, at the time. But we were in a rush. Sykes wanted me to disappear. He said it would solve a lot of problems. So I agreed. Was that the only clue?”

“Sykes’s apparent suicide was also suspicious,” he said. “The autopsy report claimed he’d set his house on fire, then shot himself. That seemed like overkill. It made me wonder if the body was Sykes, or if it had been burned to hide its true identity.”

“Another screwup. You must think we’re real amateurs.”

“Not really. You fooled a lot of people.”

Martin looked despondent. The gravity of what he’d done — and what was about to happen to him — had settled in. “I considered suicide. It would have been easier.”

“Maybe not. Everything happens for a reason, Martin. Want another beer?”

Martin stared at the ground and mumbled, “No thanks.”

“Dr. Matoff told us that Sykes was running the show. He said Sykes was getting a cut from every hooker in town, until Sheriff Soares ran the hookers out. Sykes needed a new scam, so he connected with the Sokolov brothers, and they started extorting you and your friends. Is that how it was?”

“Yes. Sykes was the mastermind. Although none of us knew it at first,” Martin said. “We thought he was just another victim, like us. It was the perfect cover.”

“When did you find out otherwise?”

“Sykes came to my house a few weeks ago, and told me to pay the Sokolovs off. That’s when it dawned on me what was going on.”

“He went to the homes of the other victims as well. Didn’t he?”

“Yes. He told them to pay, or else.”

“Dr. Matoff showed us a text where Sykes threatened him. Were you threatened?”

Martin was drawing into himself, and no longer making eye contact. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and did not reply.

“Please answer the question. Did he threaten you? We found bloody tissues in the house.”

“Yes. He became violent, and hit me in the face and bloodied my nose, so I threw him out,” Martin said. “That night, he texted me, and said that if I didn’t play ball, he’d drive down to Fort Lauderdale and kidnap my granddaughter. I believed him. I told him I’d pay, but I wanted something in return.”

“Which was to disappear.”

“That’s right. I couldn’t live with myself anymore.”

“So you took off, and Sykes staged your suicide. Do you know where Sykes went?”

“He has a place outside of Cabo San Lucas. Probably there.”

The sun came out from behind the clouds, and the air turned hot. Martin closed his eyes and shuddered as if he’d caught a chill. Tears were running down his cheeks, his conscience tearing him apart. “Do you know what the worst kind of lie is, Jon? It’s the one that we tell ourselves. That was what my relationship with Katya was. A bright, shining lie. She was young enough to be my granddaughter, yet I allowed myself to fall in love with her, and let my feelings poison my thinking. I didn’t care if my behavior hurt my family, or my friends. Or if it would destroy my reputation. All that I cared about was being with her. I even kept seeing her when the extortion started. That’s how far gone I was.”

“We all make mistakes, Martin.”

He slowly opened his eyes. “Thank you for saying that. The problem is, I kept making the same mistakes, and dug myself a hole I couldn’t get out of. The inability to learn from one’s mistakes is a neurological problem that is treatable, yet I refused to correct my own problem. I failed myself. And I have no one but myself to blame for what happened. It’s all on me.” He kicked the empty can sitting next to his chair, and sent it clattering across the backyard. “May I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Are you going to arrest me?”

“I’m no longer a policeman. I can’t arrest you.”

“Did you bring a cop with you to do the job? Maybe out on the street in a car?”

“I came alone. I just wanted to talk to you.”

“And talk we did. You’re a good man. I can see why Beth’s attracted to you.”

“I appreciate that, Martin.”

Martin came out of his chair and got his paddleboard and oar. Without a word, he walked down the driveway to the cracked sidewalk in front of the house, took a left turn, and headed down the street, with Lancaster trailing a few steps behind. They walked to a vacant lot, which had a cutoff that took them down to a deserted beach.

The beaches of Key West were small and filled with sharp rocks that would cut your feet, and Martin carefully maneuvered his way to the shore. Once there, he kicked off his sandals and peeled off his shirt. His body was bronzed and trim, and as he waded out into the surf, Lancaster realized what was happening. Martin was going to paddle out a ways, pick a tranquil spot, and dive in. He would go down to the bottom and stay there for a while, beholding the colored fish and coral reefs, and when his lungs felt ready to burst, he’d open up his mouth and be done with it. The final journey.

Lancaster tossed his watch and cell phone on the sand, then waded out as well. By now, Martin was waist deep in the water, and preparing to climb upon his board. He shot Lancaster a disapproving look that said, That’s far enough.

“Please don’t do this.”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

Lancaster could think of many reasons. Beth and Melanie were at the top of the list. And of course Nicki. And all the friends in Saint Augustine who cared deeply about him. Those were good reasons, yet they weren’t good enough. Martin was so ashamed that he’d convinced himself that only by ending his life could he erase that shame.

But what exactly had Martin done? Although stupid and vain, it wasn’t a crime to have a relationship with a younger woman, or to continue to love her, even when she didn’t love you. Nor was it a crime to fall prey to a ruthless extortionist, or to protect a loved one from the same extortionist’s threats. Martin’s only crime was that he’d betrayed himself, and couldn’t live with his conscience.

Lancaster took a chance, and waded closer. When they were nearly touching, he put his hand on Martin’s shoulder. Martin looked at his hand, and then at him.

“Say it,” the older man said.

“You did nothing wrong,” Lancaster said.

Martin started to protest. Lancaster cut him off.

“I looked at the evidence. You were the victim, which makes the things you did excusable. The sheriff in Saint Augustine isn’t going to arrest Dr. Matoff, and he won’t arrest you. It’s Sykes he wants.”

“But I did so many bad things...”

“For a reason.”

“But I hate myself. That’s why I came here, and created a new identity. I can’t stand to look at myself in the mirror in the morning. Do you know how that feels?”

“Your heart betrayed you. It happens to the best of us.”

A school of fish swam between their legs. Then, in a flash, they were gone.

“What are you saying? That I can just start over?”

“Yes. It’s like running a race. You take one step at a time.”

Martin shook his head. “It’s not that easy.”

“I didn’t say that it was.”

Lancaster reached for the board. He took it as a good sign when Martin didn’t resist. They waded back to shore, and he retrieved his cell phone and pulled up Beth’s number. He handed the cell phone to Martin, who stared painfully at the screen.

“You want me to call my daughter.”

“That’s right. She’s suffered terribly, so you should start there.”

“What should I say? That I’m sorry for being such a horrible father?”

“Tell her you love her. That’s your first step.”

“Do you think she can ever forgive me?”

“Yes, Martin, I do.”

They stood there for a while. So long that the sky changed color, and the temperature dropped. Martin took several deep breaths and shuddered, like an animal shedding its skin. Then, with his eyes fixed on the horizon, he pressed the “Call” button, and lifted the cell phone to his face.